


All Is Calm, All Is Bright

by emptydistractions



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Compliant, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, MCU Christmas Exchange 2020, Sad with a Happy Ending, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28455267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptydistractions/pseuds/emptydistractions
Summary: All Steve wants is for their Christmas Eve party to go perfectly. The Universe however, has other plans.Thank god for Bucky Barnes.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 4
Kudos: 67
Collections: MCU Christmas Exchange





	All Is Calm, All Is Bright

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to the 2020 MCU Christmas Exchange! My giftee chose to remain anon. Whoever you are, I hope you enjoy your gift!
> 
> Edited as always by the lovely and wonderful Lillaby. Thanks, doll.

“What do you think?”

“I _think_ that if you ask me one more time what I think, I’m gonna burn down this apartment, whether we’re inside it or not.”

Steve sighed and placed the last ornament on the tree before stepping back to inspect his work. The tree was objectively gorgeous; a 9 foot tall Douglas fir, its leaves full and thick, hung with baubles of every shape and size and dripping with silvery tinsel. Lights twinkled in the depths of its branches, and the rich, camphor scent filled Steve’s nose, making him think of Christmases long past. The entire thing was like a magazine cover brought to life, but still something tugged at the back of Steve’s mind, telling him that it wasn’t yet right. It wasn’t perfect. It had to be perfect. He reached out and moved the ornament he’d just hung a few inches to the right.

“It’s a Christmas tree, Steve, not the damn Sistine Chapel.”

The sudden sound of Bucky’s voice behind him was the only warning Steve got before he felt a pair of hands, one flesh and one not, snake around his torso before they came to rest on his hips. Steve could feel the warmth of Bucky’s chest through the fabric of his dress shirt and smell his shampoo as he rested his chin on Steve’s shoulder. It was a bit like being enveloped, and Steve loved every second of it, letting some of the stress melt away as he relaxed into the embrace.

But he was, above all things, stubborn, so he let only a few precious seconds of silence pass before saying, “You know that Michelangelo didn’t paint _The Last Judgement_ until 22 years after he’d painted the ceiling right? So, technically- _ow_.

Bucky silenced him with a light kick to the ankle and, although Steve couldn’t see it to confirm, what he assumed was a very beleaguered expression.

They stood together, looking at the tree that Steve had painstakingly decorated. The rest of the apartment was sparsely lit; the tree and its lights a bright spot in the darkness. Beneath it was an artfully arranged pile of brightly wrapped presents- too many of them, probably. Steve had never had much money for gift-giving when he’d been young, and now that he had the means, he tended to overcompensate in a big way. He’d spent the last month picking out things that he thought his friends might need or like, and was quite proud of what he’d ended up with.

“It looks perfect,” Bucky murmured quietly in his ear. Steve let a small smile cross his face before it disappeared, leaning further back against Bucky’s chest. Taking a deep breath, Steve willed himself to relax. It wasn’t as easy as all that. Years of therapy had taught him that, but still, he tried. He breathed out slowly, exhaling the stress from his body as he focused his eyes on the twinkling lights of the tree until everything else around him grew hazy and blurred.

Finally, he sighed and clasped a hand over Bucky’s where it still rested on Steve’s hip. “Enough, anyway.”

“It is,” Bucky insisted, apparently unwilling to drop the subject. He squeezed Steve lightly in his arms. “It’s certainly a step up from when we were kids. I mean, could you ever had imagined we’d be living this large? Try to enjoy it for once, instead of worrying.”

Bucky was right. Back then, the two of them would have killed to spend a Christmas like this; warm and well-fed, without worrying about how they were going to keep a roof above their heads come the new year. He shouldn’t be tying himself up in knots like this, not when they’d come so very far, but still…

Before he could say anything, the shrill sound of the oven timer filled the air and startled them both from their comfortable positions. Bucky’s arms dropped away, and the lack of his warmth left Steve suddenly bereft. Wordlessly, he followed Bucky into the kitchen, dropping down onto one of the tall stools that lined the counter as Bucky made a beeline for the oven.

At the urging of his therapist, Bucky had picked up a hobby- well, several hobbies, really- but cooking had by far turned out to be his favorite. He had found comfort in the quiet order of it all. The steady, reliable steps and the pre-measured outcomes of recipes had been the perfect place to calm his creeping anxieties. He could lose himself in a creamy risotto or the puffy pastry of a croquembouche. After all, Steve would gladly trade the risk of an expanding waistline for the fear of losing Bucky to the all-consuming memories of past trauma. Although privately, he’d been surprised that Bucky had shown such a flair for the culinary arts. The Bucky he’d known when they were young had been liable to burn a pot of water, so the fact that he could now turn out a perfectly crispy roast duck was truly a sight to behold.

As he watched Bucky move around the kitchen, the sort of calm emanating from him that only came in times like these, Steve wished he could share in some of it. But his own anxieties were brimming over, his fingers tapping out a restless tempo on the countertop.

As if Bucky could read his mind, he said, “Relax, Steve. Everything’s perfect. And besides, it’s not like everyone hasn’t been here before. I don’t know who you’re trying to impress.”

“This is Christmas Eve,” Steve replied, cradling his chin in one of his hands as he slumped forward over the counter. He probably looked a touch melodramatic, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“What makes that so special?” Bucky asked obstinately as he finally twisted a knob on the oven, stopping the timer. He swung open the oven door and a wave of warm spices and bitter molasses washed over the both of them.

“That smells amazing,” Steve said.

“No deflecting.” Bucky’s voice was curt and no-nonsense as he leaned down and pulled the red-hot baking sheet from the oven with his metal hand. “Now tell me what’s got you so worried.”

“This is just... important,” Steve sighed, at a loss for how to explain himself as he watched Bucky slide another tray of unbaked gingerbread into the oven. “You realize this the first time everyone will see us together.”

Bucky gave him a look that politely, but firmly, let Steve know that he thought he might be insane. “We literally spent the entire last weekend at the Tower for Natasha’s birthday. It was disgustingly domestic.”

“Yes, but...“ Steve looked around at the immaculately decorated apartment. Finally, after two long years of therapists and medication and sleepless nights, they were almost, shockingly, normal. The apartment might have belonged to any other couple in the city; framed photos on the walls and a hodge-podge of sentimental knick-knacks and eclectic furniture filling the space. There was a warmth to the rooms that hadn’t been there before Bucky had come back into Steve’s life. And that, he realized, was exactly it.

“I want them to see this,” Steve finally settled on, waving a hand around. “The life that we’ve built. I want them to see-“

“That it wasn’t a mistake?”

Steve looked at him sharply, but Bucky didn’t look sad or upset. There was a small, unreadable smile on his face as he shrugged, setting the timer for the next batch of bread. Steve wanted to say something, wanted to soften the blow of the statement at least, when a different kind of noise filled the air, this one altogether unwelcome.

“Really?” Bucky muttered, turning away from the oven and dusting off his hands. “On Christmas Eve?”

“Evil is nothing if not considerate,” Steve said dryly, pulling out his phone. “Broadway and Fulton,” he said, wincing as he read the alert. Right in the middle of downtown Manhattan.

Bucky had already left the kitchen and was busy rifling through the closet and pulling out his gear. “Any word on what it is?” he yelled, his voice muffled as he changed clothes.

Steve studied the message again and shook his head. “Just an all hands on deck alert.”

“Great,” Bucky said, sarcasm dripping from his tone. He re-emerged from the bedroom, his dress slacks and button down replaced with his black tac pants and vest, bristling with hidden weapons. He tossed Steve his own uniform. “Merry fuckin’ Christmas.”

==⍟==

“Fuck.”

 _That may have been a bit of an understatement_ , Steve thought faintly.

“Fuck,” Bucky repeated.

Steve could only nod, still too shell-shocked to speak as he looked hopelessly at the smoky wreck of what had once been their apartment. The fire brigade had cleared out half an hour ago and the dust had mostly settled. But what the calm revealed was devastating; everything was scorched and soaked.

 _“Fuck,”_ Bucky said it once again, like saying it might change the fact that they’d returned home from the mission to their apartment full of flames. The fire department had been quick to respond, thank god.

Steve was dumbstruck as he stepped across the threshold into the ruined apartment. Charred splinters of what had once been the front door crunched underfoot along with broken bits of plaster. It was a minor miracle- a _Christmas_ miracle- he thought sardonically. The flames had been mostly contained to their unit and the fire department had been quick to respond. Their sprawling apartment was the only one on the top floor, and everyone who had been evacuated from the other units was already returning home, no worse for the wear besides a little bit of unwanted excitement for the night.

Steve wished he could say the same. He moved through the room, taking in the burnt remains of their furniture, the charred carpet, and the damaged walls. The counter he’d sat at less than three hours ago had been blackened by soot and soaked by water. He trailed a finger through the black, soggy mess as he passed. Everything smelled of smoke and ash. In the living room, the tree was burnt to crisp, its once beautiful branches shriveled by heat, glass from broken ornaments glittering on the ground. The packages at the base of the tree had suffered the same fate. Numbly, Steve knelt to pick one up, the package crumbling into ash in his hands.

Behind him, he could half-hear Bucky as he spoke low into the phone. Then there were footsteps, crunching through the residue of the fire, until he came to a stop just behind Steve’s kneeling frame.

“Pepper says they’re more than happy for us to stay in your old place at the Tower until this is sorted out,” he said.

Steve swallowed thickly, but couldn’t force out the words.

“Steve?”

“Yeah,” Steve finally got out. “Yeah, that’s good.” His words sounded absent-minded, even to his own ears, but he wasn’t sure how to fix it. His brain was stuck on the enormity of what had happened to his home.

Another step behind him, and then suddenly Bucky was at his side, kneeling next to him. His long hair, which was coming loose from its tie, fell partially into his face, which was the very picture of remorse. “Steve,” he started, his tone apologetic. “I am so, so sorry. This is all my fault. I didn’t turn off the oven.” He shook his head, more hair coming loose. “I can’t believe I was so stupid! Fuck. I’ll pay for-“

Steve waved off the next words before they left Bucky’s mouth. Their money was drawn from the same accounts, and anyway, it wasn’t the money he was worried about. They had more than enough to replace a thousand apartments worth of things. The problem was that if this wasn’t an omen, then he didn’t know what else would count beyond the universe actually reaching down and smacking him in the face. It didn’t bode well at all.

“It’s not your fault,” Steve said quietly. “I didn’t turn it off either. We’re both adults here.”

Bucky didn’t look convinced, but he also didn’t argue, staring instead at the fire-burnt tree in front of them. “I guess,” he sighed and looked around, weariness written on his features. “We should probably get a move on. I talked to Tony, and it sounds like the soonest we can get someone to come in and clean this mess is the day after tomorrow. Although, he did say we could probably find someone who’d do it tomorrow if we’re willing to pay.”

“No,” Steve said. There was no reason to ruin someone else’s Christmas just because neither of them had had the good sense to turn off a damn oven before rushing off to save the world. He exhaled slowly and continued to sift through the rubble. A bright spot of green and blue wrapping paper stood out among the black and brown that seemed to cover everything, and Steve extracted the singed package carefully. The rest of it was ruined, the bit of wrapping paper the only thing that had survived. He felt his heart throb painfully in his chest as he made out the smudged writing on what was left of the tag. Belatedly, he pulled off what was left of the wrapping, revealing the charred canvas, the image he’d painted gone.

“Steve,” Bucky said gently, putting a hand on his wrist. “It’s alright. There’s nothing here we can’t replace.”

Mouth twisted into a frown, Steve looked at the ruined piece of art in his hands. “I drew this for you,” he said quietly. “A few months ago… Must have been back in July, I think. You had just seen that old footage from the war, and I remember you said you couldn’t imagine that you’d ever looked so young.”

Bucky had been mostly joking. Steve had known that, but he’d been struck with inspiration all the same. The painting had taken the better part of a week, but he’d been happy with the result; a portrait of Bucky the way Steve remembered him, without the worry and tension that lined his face and clouded his eyes now. Looking at it had been like looking at a stranger and at his best friend all at the same time.

Delicately, Bucky took the blackened canvas from Steve’s hand, putting it to the side with the rest of the burned presents. “Thank you,” he said softly. He leaned in and kissed Steve, quick and chaste, before getting to his feet, dusting the soot off his knees, and reaching out a hand to Steve. “C’mon. We’re going somewhere.”

“Huh?” Steve said, confused. The living room and kitchen had been ruined along with most of the two spare rooms. But aside from smoke damage, their bedroom, furthest from the fire’s origin, had remained thankfully untouched. He’d hoped to dig up a few changes of clothes from their closet and grab his sketchbooks from the nightstand.

“We’ll come back,” Bucky assured him, wiggling his metal fingers at Steve as if to encourage him to take them. “But there’s something I want to show you first.”

Wordlessly, Steve took the proffered hand and Bucky easily hauled him to his feet. Steve didn’t have a clue what Bucky was planning, but he trusted him, and that was more than enough to get him moving.

Bucky wasted no time in herding Steve down to the street and their parked car. It was more than a little odd, least of all because they really owned the car for posterity. In practice, they got everywhere they needed to go by walking or taking the subway, the public attention more than worth it to skip New York traffic. And even when they wanted to go further than their feet could take them, they had Steve’s motorcycle. But Bucky led him right by it to the car.

“So where are we going?” Steve asked, carefully casual as Bucky pulled the car away from the curb. The seatbelt dug into his chest as Bucky slammed on the brakes before hitting the accelerator so hard Steve was worried he might break the pedal. Despite nearly a century of training, Bucky it turned out, was not a good driver, and Steve was convinced that every time they went somewhere with Bucky driving, he left the car a little more grey at the temples than when they’d started.

“You’ll find out when we get there,” Bucky replied, his eyes on Steve and not on the road as he crossed three lines of traffic and slammed around a corner. “Close your eyes.”

Steve was almost certain that that wasn’t the best course of action, but he’d lived through all his other mistakes. What was one more if it made Bucky happy? “A hint?” he asked, closing his eyes with a disgruntled noise.

“Your hint is shut your eyes and be quiet.”

Steve grumbled his meager protest and settled deeper into the leather seat, trying to center his weight as Bucky continued to defy the laws of physics (and New York traffic laws) with their very expensive car. He’d already seen the direction they were headed in- away from downtown. But there were any one of a million things in that direction that Bucky might want to show him, and probably a million more that he didn’t have a clue about. He ran through several guesses in his head anyway, the results ranging the gamut from an abandoned Hydra safehouse to a particularly good hot dog vendor. Realizing that his mission might be futile, Steve gave up and settled in for what turned out to be a ride full of sudden stops and Bucky cursing not-so-under his breath at his fellow drivers, pedestrians, traffic lights, stop signs, and once, even a low-flying bird.

But Steve had long grown used to Bucky’s particular brand of driving, and soon his restless thoughts and the hum of the road beneath the tires lulled him into a state of semi-consciousness; not asleep, but not fully awake either. When they finally stopped, it took him a minute to notice, and almost as soon as he did, there was a warm hand on his shoulder as Bucky shook him.

“We’re here.”

Steve opened his eyes, taking quick stock of their location before unhooking his seatbelt and stepping out of the car. Wherever they were, it was dark. A few street lights flickered forlornly in the distance, but most of the ones on the street where they’d stopped seemed to be out of service. As Steve shut the door behind him, a blast of wind rattled down the empty street, chilling him to his core. The sun had set a long time ago, and taken with it any hint of warmth. Cold radiated up from the icy concrete of the silent street.

Steve blinked and looked around again, sure that he must be missing something. The street around them was clearly abandoned, the buildings lining it boarded up and condemned. Chunks of asphalt were missing from the road, and peeling paint and graffiti dominated the landscape. He glanced to the left and right, but he couldn’t see even a sign of another living soul besides the two of them. Eyebrow raised in question, he caught Bucky’s eyes. Bucky looked back at him, calm and sure.

“Is this…” Steve started but quickly trailed off. He didn’t have a good enough guess as to what was going on to even offer up a question. “You didn’t bring me here to murder me, did you?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Please Steve, have some respect. If I were going to murder you, I’d choose somewhere much more remote.”

“Noted,” Steve said dryly as Bucky grinned. He looked quickly back at the building in front of them. Bucky had stopped the car squarely in front of it, so whatever it was, it must be the focus of their trip. “So, if murder’s not on the agenda…”

Bucky laughed, his breath visible in curling, white wisps. He inspected the building before them with a shrewd look before saying, “I know it looks a little different now. Renovations, I think, and a hell of a lot of years. They painted it, and I think the sixth floor might be new, but it’s still the same, underneath all that.”

Steve stared, not sure exactly what set this building apart from the other crumbling buildings around them. The block was clearly full of old apartments, though no one was living there now. He was so busy trying to figure out what the hell Bucky was up to, that when realization started to dawn on him, it came painfully slowly. A memory flashed across his mind; the same building, but the paint was a drab, olive green, and the windows had ugly yellow shutters that didn’t close properly, no matter how much you fiddled with them.

Steve’s eyes widened, the cold biting sharply at them. “This is…” he breathed.

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. Took me a while to find it. Everything’s so different now, and surprise surprise, the record-keeping wasn’t exactly stellar. I was afraid it had been demolished.” He shrugged. “But here it is, still standing.”

“Oh, _wow_ ,” Steve said, his eyes focused with new intensity on the sight before him as the floodgates of memory opened up. Broken glass littered the ground underfoot as he approached. The front door had been boarded over with plywood and heavily graffitied, with layers of paint dripping down to the concrete below. Steve reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing over the rough wood like he might be able to reach through time to the door that he remembered.

Beside him, Bucky was less gentle, gripping the edge of the plywood with his metal hand and ripping it easily away, rusted nails dropping to the ground. The actual front door was set slanted in the door frame, slumped to the side like a drunken sailor and leaning off its hinges as Bucky pushed it open. Mailboxes lined the small entryway, still bearing the faded, curling names of the building’s last occupants.

It was as dark inside as it was on the street they’d just left. All that remained of the hall lights were shattered remnants of burnt-out bulbs, still screwed into their sockets. Bucky had come prepared though. He pulled a small flashlight from one pocket of his coat and flicked it on, illuminating the mess around them and casting shadows into the corners.

“C’mon,” he said, jerking his head towards the stairs.

Steve doubted their structural integrity, and mentally crossed his fingers that they’d hold their combined weight as they took steps two and three at a time until they’d reached the fourth floor. From there, they trod the old, familiar path to the end of the hall before turning to the door on the left. At this one, Bucky paused, looking to Steve for… permission, maybe? Steve wasn’t sure, but he nodded all the same and Bucky pushed the door in with ease.

And then, like some kind of fever dream, they were standing in their old apartment, although in Steve’s dreams it was usually less dark and damp. But all the same, it was almost unbelievable. This was the first place they’d shared together- the only one, really. They’d had plans for a new place after the war, something bigger and with more reliable heating, but that plan had never come to fruition. Steve looked in wonder at the small space. He’d never known what happened to their apartment after he’d left for Europe. Bucky’s family certainly couldn’t have afforded to keep paying for it, and Steve had had no family left to speak of.

Steve walked slowly, almost reverently. Beneath his feet, the floorboards were warped and cracked. Stains covered the floor, and in one corner a collection of boxes and blankets indicated that someone had once used this place for shelter after it had been abandoned. The windows, like the front door, had been boarded over, snow building up where one of them had cracked and broken.

But Steve didn’t see any of that, not really. His mind superimposed his memories over the trashed room. That corner there was where they had their old, ratty couch, salvaged from the alley behind Bucky’s second job when they were 18. The small kitchenette had been where Steve had cooked most of their meager meals on the rare occasions that they’d both been home at the same time. Steve’s throat was tight as he remembered the stifling hot summer nights with the windows thrown open, hoping to catch even the faintest breeze, and the cold winter evenings like this one, when they’d huddled beneath a blanket and shivered as they dreamed of the spring.

“I can’t believe this is still here,” Steve said finally, turning towards Bucky.

Bucky had his hands in his pockets as he turned slowly, taking in the room at his own pace. For a moment he had the look, the one that Steve knew meant he was firmly stuck in the past, and then he blinked and suddenly Bucky was there again.

“Probably should’ve knocked it down ages ago,” he said. There was a rough edge to his voice. “Thank god for red tape, I guess.”

They stood silently for a while longer, each absorbed in their own memories, before Bucky moved, the floor beneath him creaking and groaning. He stopped in the furthest corner, tapping at the wooden boards with his boots and muttering to himself as his brow furrowed in concentration.

Curious, Steve followed. “Everything alright?”

“I’m looking for something,” Bucky replied. His eyes flashed over to Steve and then back to the task at hand. “Don’t worry, I didn’t bring you here just to wallow in the carcass of a sad, old building.”

Truth be told, Steve didn’t think he was wallowing at all. Seeing their old apartment filled him with a strange kind of comfort. Already, some of the ever-present stress and anxiety inside him had quieted, less of a constant pressure in his chest and more of a gentle ache. Memories he hadn’t even realized he’d forgotten were flooding back for him to rediscover all over again, the good and the bad. 

“Got it!” Bucky said triumphantly, knocking the heel of his boot against the end of a particular board.

To Steve’s eyes, nothing appeared any different about that section of flooring, but Bucky seemed happy enough, so he must have found something. Bucky dropped quickly to his knees, digging his metal fingers into the floor and prying up the board. The wood gave way with a loud crack, splintering and coming away in Bucky’s hand.

Steve dropped into a crouch beside him, even more curious now as Bucky reached down into the hole he’d opened up. He couldn’t see much beyond termite dirt and bits of old, rotted wood and insulation. Bucky’s brow furrowed as he searched. Finally, he pulled back with a pleased grin, a rusted tin in his hand. Against the shiny silver of his fingers, the tin appeared dull with age, dented and flaked with rust. But Bucky held it like it was a grail, gently getting his fingers beneath the rim and pulling it apart. Steve bit back his questions, and watched as Bucky pulled out a bundle of papers tied together with a long string and offered it to Steve.

Steve took the bundle, his lips forming the beginnings of a question. “What is this?” he asked. When he attempted to untie the string, it fell to pieces. Carefully, he unfolded the first piece of paper. It was weathered and stained, but the writing was neat and legible. He instantly recognized the spidery lettering for what it was - his own handwriting. Steve looked up in question, but Bucky only shook his head and pointed at the piece of paper. Steve looked back down, his voice loud in the silence of the abandoned apartment.

 _“Dear Bucky,”_ he read. _“You only left this morning, but already the apartment feels empty without you. It might seem silly, me writing this to you when you haven’t even been gone a full day. By the time this letter gets to you though, you’ll probably already have been at boot camp for a week or more.”_

Steve remembered writing this. He’d seen Bucky off that morning, stood by as the train departed for basic training. Watching Bucky leave had been harder than he’d ever imagined. By the time he’d gotten home, the hole in his heart had started to ache like a missing limb, and the emptiness of the apartment they’d shared together had only dug the wound in deeper. But writing had seemed to ease the hurt, at least for a little while. He’d found a strange sort of solace in putting words to paper, knowing that eventually they’d reach Bucky.

Quickly, he set the letter aside and opened up the next one.

_“Dear Bucky, I was happy to receive your letter, and even happier to hear you’re doing so well.”_

This one he remembered too. Steve’s hands were shaking lightly, a fine tremor in his fingers as he set it aside, opening the next one and the next. It was every letter. Every single letter he’d sent to Bucky while he’d been away. Tucked between them was even the silly drawings that Steve had included when he’d had a bit of paper to spare.

Steve’s chest was tight, his eyes stinging as he looked to Bucky. “I didn’t know you kept these,” he whispered.

The smile on Bucky’s face was small, tentative, but to Steve it might as well have been the sun. “Every one,” he said. “When I came home on leave, before I got my order, I hid ‘em here.” As he talked, the tiniest bit of his old accent slipped in, and Steve’s heart warmed to hear it. “I thought- I don’t know what I thought, but I couldn’t just get rid of ‘em. Couldn’t take ‘em with me. And I couldn’t ask you to keep ‘em. Didn’t want you thinking I was some kind of sap.”

“I’ve always known you were a sap,” Steve said, but the joking tone was undercut by the wetness at the corners of his eyes. “Bucky, this is... thank you.”

“I was going to bring you tomorrow,” Bucky said, settling back on his heels. “But, given the circumstances… it seemed like the right time.”

“Yeah.” Steve wiped surreptitiously at his eyes. “This is the best present you could have given me.” He laughed. “Better than a drawing, anyway.”

Bucky didn’t laugh with him, his voice still soft and serious. “We’ve always had a life together, Steve. Even when it didn’t feel like it. Even when we were apart. This place, these letters-“ He held up a handful of paper to illustrate his point. “Proves that. You don’t need a party, or a nice apartment, or the perfect Christmas tree to show that to anybody.”

Steve’s chest ached, and he couldn’t stop the tear that dripped down his face, freezing his skin even as he lit up from the inside with warmth. “Thank you, Bucky.”

Bucky, who didn’t do well with sustained gratitude or especially emotional moments, rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I’ll make a deal with you for the drawing,” he said.

“Oh?” Steve’s voice was choked, but happy.

“You can do a new one, but this time, draw me the way I am now. I even promise to pose for it.”

Steve gave him a watery smile. “Any pose I want?”

“Any one you want,” Bucky repeated. “Although, I may have a few suggestions.”

“Of course you do,” Steve laughed and pulled Bucky in for a kiss. “Merry Christmas, Bucky.”

Bucky grinned and kissed him back. “Merry Christmas, Steve.”


End file.
